


lettera d'amore

by shadowen



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Autistic Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Crusades Era Joe | Yusuf al-Kaysani & Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Dyslexic Nicky, Friends to Lovers, Hurt Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Hurt/Comfort, Language Barrier, Love Letters, M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 22:34:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27663458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shadowen/pseuds/shadowen
Summary: One day, Yusuf would commit these thoughts to words and speak them to Nicolò. Not today, but one day.
Relationships: Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 83
Kudos: 472





	1. Chapter 1

Languages had always come easily to Yusuf. He delighted in the taste of new words, new ways of assembling sounds into meaning, and he would admit the Ligurian language possessed its own kind of poetry. There was something especially musical about the way Nicolò spoke, something like a soft breeze on a warm night, and that gave Yusuf even greater pleasure in learning the nuance of the language. 

In the time since they had unlocked themselves from pointless combat, Nicolò had committed to mastering Arabic, but he struggled with it and made it clear that his Greek and Latin were little better. He was an eager and patient student, though, and Yusuf enjoyed teaching Nicolò as much as Yusuf himself enjoyed learning. Through mutual effort, communication progressed from a challenging necessity to a wonderful pastime, and talking with Nicolò quickly became the delight of Yusuf’s every day.

The period that Yusuf would later consider their true courtship began when they found shelter in a shallow cave, from which they could just view the glimmer of sunlight on the Sea of Speri. Sitting in the mouth of the cave as evening fell, looking out to the west, Nicolò said quietly in his native tongue, “I have missed the sea.”

Yusuf, who was working to start a small fire, paused and looked up. The lines of Nicolò’s profile were gilded in the light of the fading sun, his eyes reflecting the pale colors of the sky, and Yusuf was struck, as he often was, by the stunning features of his companion. He stared for a long moment before remembering that he ought to speak.

“Tomorrow, we can go to the shore,” he told Nicolò brightly. “You can play in the water as much as you like.”

Nicolò looked at Yusuf from the corner of his eye, and his mouth curled just enough to count as a smile. “Be careful. I might never want to leave.”

“I think we can afford to stay for a while.” Yusuf turned his attention back to the fledgling fire. “Here, I mean. This cave is almost hospitable, and the village we passed to the south may be of value.”

Nicolò hummed in agreement, his eyes returned to the sea. He had told Yusuf little of his life before they met in battle beneath the walls of Jerusalem, and he had said even less about his home or his youth. This simple statement of longing was the first hint that there was anything he was sorry to have left behind.

They had developed something of an evening routine. After making camp and eating a small supper, they would sit companionably beside the fire, cleaning or repairing things that needed it, sometimes talking and sometimes sharing an easy silence. Often, Yusuf would write or sketch in the little book of bound parchment Nicolò had found for him in one of the many towns they had passed through. At some point, he had begun to practice writing in Ligurian, capturing little phrases he liked or figuring out more complex expressions. On this night, he found himself searching for words to capture the sense of safety and contentment he felt, the smell of the fire, and the sweet sound of Nicolò humming softly as he stitched up a tear in Yusuf’s second tunic.

The two of them had lost everything, but that loss had left them with each other. With the passing of time, Yusuf had come to believe that being with Nicolò was worth everything he had ever owned, ten times over.

“What are you writing?” Nicolò asked, shaking Yusuf from his thoughts.

“Oh. Nothing. Just a bit of poetry.”

“You were very intent,” Nicolò observed with a gentle smile. “Trying to find the right word?”

Yusuf returned his smile. “There is no _right word_ , my brother. There are only words and the bridges they build between hearts and ideas.”

Nicolò made a quiet sound that Yusuf had come to recognize as a laugh. “You are even poetic when you are explaining poetry.”

“There is poetry in everything. I only give it a voice,” Yusuf said, in part because he knew that kind of sentiment might coax another laugh from Nicolò. 

Instead, Nicolò shook his head, smiling that fraction of a smile, and carried on repairing the damaged tunic.

The thought occurred to Yusuf that this might be the moment to speak aloud the words he had been trying to assemble, to express to Nicolò the things that had been steadily taking shape in his heart, but he decided, as he always did, to wait a bit longer, to build the bridge of words just a little bit stronger before he tried to cross it.

The next morning, as promised, they made for the seashore, and Nicolò wasted no time stripping off his boots and cloak to wade into the shallows and splash water over his head. This was typical behavior any time they encountered a body of water, and he always emerged smiling and refreshed, as if simply wetting his face restored something his very soul craved. Yusuf bathed when need and opportunity arose, but he had never known anyone who relished it as Nicolò did. 

“I think, one day you will become a fish and swim away from me,” Yusuf called.

Nicolò turned back to him with a broad grin, as radiant as it was rare, and Yusuf’s heart swelled. Walking back onto the dry sand, Nicolò asked, “If I become a fish, will you become a fisherman?” 

“You want me to catch you?”

Nicolò seemed about to say something, but his jaw tightened as color rose on his face. “No, of course not,” he said, all his bright joy gone as though it had never been.

If Nicolò became a fish, he thought, Yusuf would find the swiftest ship and follow into the deepest water. If Nicolò became a bird, Yusuf would learn to fly. If Nicolò became a stone, Yusuf would build a shrine around him and sleep in the dust at his side. 

One day, Yusuf would commit these thoughts to words and speak them to Nicolò. Not today, but one day.

The village was really just a small fishing settlement, but the residents were happy to trade food and supplies for coin and work. At least, they were happy to trade with Yusuf. Nicolò’s pale skin and sea-glass eyes marked him as a foreigner, and his stumbling speech did little to soothe the villagers’ suspicions. Nicolò pretended not to notice, but Yusuf could see his shoulders sagging under the weight of hostile stares. 

Yusuf could hardly blame the locals for their uncertainty, but he fought the urge to explain to them that Nicolò was not the savage invader they feared him to be. Not any more.

“A few weeks of work, and I might persuade that old man to sell us a horse,” Yusuf remarked as they returned to their cave. “Two horses would be better, but I don’t think heaven itself could make him part with that mare.”

Nicolò busied himself with stoking the fire, and said nothing.

“It sounded like there’s always a need for strong backs to haul in fish,” Yusuf went on. “Perhaps you c-”

“No,” Nicolò cut him off quietly. “No, I… I don’t believe I would be welcome.”

Yusuf’s first instinct was to argue, to try and persuade him that he would be greeted warmly the moment the people saw his kind heart, but this was a battle long since fought and lost. They had learned quickly that Nicolò’s presence often complicated otherwise straightforward dealings, and Yusuf only objected out of habit and principle. 

“As you like,” Yusuf replied. He tried to keep the irritation out of his voice, but a twitch in Nicolò’s mouth told him Nicolò had heard it, nonetheless. 

An able and honest man could easily find work in most of the places they had passed in their travels, and an honest man who could read and write in multiple languages was hailed as an honored guest almost everywhere. In combination with his friendly nature, this made Yusuf very popular and afforded him no shortage of clients in need of letters written, contracts read, conflicts mediated, and any number of situations in which a good translator was required. Yusuf took only what payment the people offered, often food or a single coin, sometimes songs or stories, once a roll of rough parchment and a bottle of thin ink.

While Yusuf worked, Nicolò spent the days hunting, exploring, or making much-needed repairs to their clothes and gear. In the evenings, with the sun low and bright across the sea, Nicolò walked along the beach, collecting interesting stones and shells, which Yusuf would then give to the children of the village. Every day, when the work was done, Yusuf would meet Nicolò on the beach, and every day, the sight of his beloved - barefoot, windswept, glowing gold with contentment and the light of the setting sun - sent a stab of aching joy and exquisite longing into Yusuf’s very soul.

So it was that every night, as they shared supper beside the fire, Yusuf began to compose a letter.

Though he took care to craft each line, the words came more easily than expected. He had only to look up, to see Nicolò’s strong hands and gentle face, and inspiration came in abundance. It was a simple thing to express his adoration when the subject of it was at his side.

Days became weeks, and Yusuf refined his missive until the poetry shone as brightly as the sun on the sea. Satisfied, he rolled it neatly and wrote Nicolò’s name, that most sublime and sacred word, on the edge in careful script. Then he wrapped it in a strip of leather and tucked it safely into the bottom of his pack.

He had put his feelings into words, but he found he wasn’t quite prepared to offer those words to Nicolò.

As the long summer drew to a close, and they began to discuss what they would do when the weather turned cold, a boat arrived from another village, bringing unexpected news.

That evening, Yusuf’s heart was heavy when he met Nicolò on the beach. The sun was just as gold and his beloved just as beautiful, but the sight now filled him with sorrow, knowing that his words would disrupt Nicolò’s contentment and might bring an end to their current peace.

With only a glance at Yusuf’s expression, Nicolò knew something was amiss. “What is it?” he asked, before Yusuf could speak a word.

For a moment, Yusuf thought of lying, of shielding Nicolò from the truth that would resurrect the horror they had fought so hard to escape. The notion fled as soon as it formed; Yusuf could no more lie to Nicolò than he could deny the motion of the tides and stars.

“The invaders have returned,” he said. “They are few and disorganized, but they have taken Ancyra and are moving to the north.”

Nicolò’s face grew hard. Anyone else would have looked at him and seen only cold rage, but Yusuf could read the anguish in his eyes as surely as if he had spoken it aloud. Without a word, Nicolò retrieved his boots from the sand and started off in the direction of the cave, and Yusuf knew precisely what he meant to do.

“It’s not your war, any longer,” he called after Nicolò. “You have done your penance. Made your amends. We could st-”

“We could what?” Nicolò asked over his shoulder. “Do nothing? Stand aside while the Christian armies wreak their havoc again?”

“Yes!” Yusuf said. Nicolò stopped abruptly and turned to stare at him. “We have been granted a gift, Nico. Do you truly believe God wishes us to spend it in further violence?”

A muscle in Nicolò’s cheek tensed, then his eyes softened and fell away. Quietly, he said, “I believe God wishes me to do good, and the only way I know to do that is with a sword. You... you do good everywhere you are. If you wish to remain here, to live quietly, I understand.”

As if Yusuf would wish anything that would keep him apart from Nicolò. As if he would ever allow Nicolò to walk alone into battle, immortal or not. “Where you go, I will follow,” he said. “If your path leads back to war, then so does mine. Even so, there is no need to rush off this very night. Let us rest and prepare. Then we will go.”

Nicolò’s brows furrowed as if he meant to argue, but he nodded agreement and fell into step beside Yusuf as they walked away from the shore.

In the morning, when Yusuf woke, Nicolò was nowhere to be seen.

This was not an uncommon occurrence, but that did not help the cold flash of panic that struck him every time. He forced himself to breathe deeply and looked around to see that the water skins were also gone. Nicolò must have gone to refill them at the freshwater spring near the base of the mountain. Good. Smart. They had much to do before setting off, and Nicolò was nothing if not efficient.

Yusuf’s first priority was to settle accounts in the village and, hopefully, secure at least one reasonably healthy pack animal, preferably a horse. He began to fill his pack with the coins they had been saving and with items he intended to gift or trade, then paused when his fingers touched soft leather, carefully rolled and tucked away in the bottom of the pack.

If ever there was a time for declarations of love, he thought, the day of departing for war was certainly it.

He had always intended for Nicolò to read the letter alone, to have time and space to consider the weight of Yusuf’s words and, if Nicolò chose, to later deny the letter ever existed. Yusuf had written as much, and fate seemed to smile in allowing him to leave the parchment for his beloved to find.

Gently, as if handling his own fragile heart, Yusuf unrolled the leather and placed his missive in the center of Nicolò’s bedroll. Then, feeling light and hopeful, he left.

Settling his affairs in the village took rather more of Yusuf’s time and attention than he intended. Those for whom he had written many documents insisted they needed one more and that there would be most terrible consequences if it was not completed that very day. No less than three mothers and two fathers reminded him they had daughters of marrying age who were his to claim, if he chose. The old man who kept what passed as the village stable set a price for his horses that was three times what Yusuf had ever heard of anyone paying for an animal, even a prized mount, which these certainly were not.

By the time Yusuf made his way back to the cave, the sun had passed its zenith and was following its slow path downward to the sea. He returned with somewhat fewer coins, bundles full of dried fruits and meats, a new whetstone, and a large piece of dyed blue linen for Nicolò, whose alabaster skin was prone to blistering in the desert wind. All of this was packed into a pair of worn saddlebags on the back of a sturdy grey gelding called Turtle, whom Yusuf had befriended over several weeks of treats and unabashed flattery.

When he approached the mouth of the cave, Yusuf froze, and the big horse looked over his shoulder in curiosity.

Not only was there still no sign of Nicolò, all of their possessions were also absent. The two bedrolls, Nicolò’s pack, their weapons, supplies, and the precious letter had all vanished as if they had never been. Even the little fire had been banked and lay cold, looking for all the world like no one had been here in months.

Nicolò had left him behind.

Of all the ways Yusuf imagined Nicolò might react to the letter, he hadn’t considered disappearing a possibility. Nicolò was not inclined to run away, or even to back down, no matter the circumstance, and the prospect of being adored by Yusuf couldn’t possibly be all that intimidating. Nor was it likely that Nicolò had been repulsed, as he had referenced multiple affairs with other men, showing only a token bit of shame. Still, for some reason, Nicolò had chosen to set off in solitude, rather than spend another moment with Yusuf.

Yusuf was willing to accept many things, but this was not among them. At the very least, Nicolò owed him an explanation.


	2. Chapter 2

Very few things came easily to Nicolò. He was far from stupid, despite what his father always claimed, but the skills other people seemed to develop naturally were often a struggle for him. Conversation and other social abilities were the worst, but he might have been forgiven, had he made up for it in any other way. He had no head for business or numbers, art and music were foreign concepts that had no place in his life, and he was far too fastidious and precise to be given even simple household tasks.

The only tool that had ever felt right or natural in his hand was a blade, and the moment Nicolò found he had some small talent for fighting, he had bent all his focus into doing that one thing well, to the exclusion of all else.

One of the many skills he never bothered to acquire, and rarely gave much thought to, was reading. He envied Yusuf’s comfortable way with language in all its forms, and he avoided the confession that his knowledge of letters was limited to those that formed his own name.

Those same letters, he found, were suddenly facing him from the edge of a rolled piece of parchment, sitting innocently in the center of his sleeping blanket.

He had returned to the cave to find Yusuf gone, which wasn’t an unusual occurrence, especially since Yusuf had been spending most days working in the village. Even an errant piece of parchment wasn’t out of the ordinary, as Yusuf sometimes left them lying around, either out of carelessness or because he knew it annoyed Nicolò. Never before, though, had Yusuf left anything that bore Nicolò’s name.

Gingerly, Nicolò unrolled the parchment to see if there was anything inside. It was a letter, he determined, addressed to himself, written by Yusuf. It was a letter, most likely in Ligurian, that Yusuf had written and then left, not wanting to be present when Nicolò found it. It was a letter, left for Nicolò on the very day they were meant to travel back in the direction of a war they thought was over, a war that Yusuf wanted no part of and had no reason to fight.

It was, Nicolò concluded, a letter of farewell.

His heart fell so hard in his chest, he was sure it had left his body and sunk into the earth at his feet. 

Alone. He was alone. Yusuf had left him alone. 

He could hardly blame Yusuf for choosing a life of peace, but, after all they had been through together, he would have thought… No, of course Yusuf would rather spare them both the argument and had chosen instead to write a gentle and beautiful goodbye, not knowing Nicolò would be unable to appreciate his words. 

Nicolò gently rolled the parchment again and, for a moment, just held it in his hands and studied the shape of his own name. A kind and patient priest had once shown him how to form the letters in the dirt, but he had never seen them like this, in ink, as if it were a name worth remembering. As far as he knew, no one else had ever written his name, and here Yusuf had written an entire page just to bid him a kind farewell. With his throat tight and his eyes burning, Nicolò began to pack up the little camp. 

Yusuf had taken his own pack and some money, but he seemed to have left everything else for Nicolò; he was so unfailingly generous, even as he took away the one thing of value Nicolò had ever possessed. 

Packing their - now Nicolò’s - few belongings took only a few minutes, no matter how many times he rolled and unrolled the sleeping blankets or how methodically he stored the remaining portions of food.

When there was nothing left to do, Nicolò sat in the mouth of the cave and tried to decipher as much of the letter as he could. Perhaps he was mistaken, and it was not meant to say goodbye. Perhaps Yusuf might change his mind and return. Perhaps the letter would give some clue as to Yusuf’s destination, and Nicolò might search for him when the war had ended. 

The parchment smelled of leather and of the sweet oil Yusuf used to clean his hair, and the scrape of it against Nicolò’s hands made him think of the calluses on Yusuf’s fingers, gently checking Nicolò for injuries, even when he knew there would be none.

The air caught in Nicolò’s throat. He choked down a breath and tried to swallow the bitter emptiness that threatened to rise as he breathed out. 

Yusuf’s writing might as well have been angelic script, just as beautiful and just as indecipherable to Nicolò. There were a few words he recognized, others he could guess at, but knowing the letter made at least one reference to God and another to Jerusalem did little to help him understand. He stared until the words started to blur before his eyes and rolled the parchment back up with a sigh.

One day, he hoped, he would learn enough to read Yusuf’s final words to him, but there was no use wasting time now. Nicolò lifted the packed gear onto his back and set out toward the road.

It was not until the sun had begun its slow descent into the sea, casting the land around him in colors like fire, that Nicolò found he could no longer ignore the weight of what he had lost. He thought of evenings on the beach, and the amber glow of sunset on Yusuf’s handsome face, his ready laugh and the particular soft smile that seemed to appear only when they were alone. Nicolò’s life had not been entirely without kindness and companionship before Yusuf, but no one had ever treated him with such care or accepted him so completely. Yusuf had offered him peace when all he knew was violence and forgiveness when he had done nothing to earn it.

And Nicolò had repaid him by being stubborn, stand-offish, and hell-bent on returning to the blood-soaked battlefield Yusuf had been so grateful to leave behind. If Nicolò had been less rigid, more willing to talk and compromise, Yusuf would not have felt the need to sneak away instead of discussing the matter. If Nicolò had put more work into learning language and letters, he would have been able to read what was surely a beautiful and heartfelt letter and found in it some measure of consolation.

Nicolò’s chest ached. He wanted to turn westward and run into the sea, to seek solace in the water and to feel anything other than the endless loneliness that he knew would accompany him for the rest of his long days.

He kept walking.

His throat burned in thirst, and still he kept walking, reasoning that he could not truly die of thirst and so should save his water until the need was dire.

His stomach rolled with hunger, and still he kept walking, reasoning that he could not truly die of hunger and so should save his food until he was too weak to go on.

His heart was crumbling inside him, and still he kept walking, reasoning that it was better to be in motion, rather than to rest and be forced to contemplate this pain.

He grew tired, the sun sunk low on the horizon, and still he kept walking, reasoning that a man traveling alone in the night would be a tempting target for bandits and he would prefer to meet them on his feet than to be roused from slumber.

Nicolò had suffered worse torments, and they had not broken him. This, he decided, would not break him, either.

Bright stars had begun to appear in the sky when he heard the sound of hooves approaching from behind him. Nicolò stepped to the side of the road to make room for the rider. The horse slowed as it came nearer, and Nicolò turned his face slightly to the side, hoping the traveller would pass without incident.

Just as the big grey horse came alongside him, it turned abruptly into his path, and Nicolò stopped with a jolt. He looked up at the rider in surprise and saw Yusuf’s kind and handsome face looking down at him, thick brows knit with displeasure.

“I didn’t realize you were in so much of a hurry,” Yusuf remarked lightly, though Nicolò could hear a hint of strain in his voice.

He dismounted from the horse, and Nicolò took a step back, frowning. “I thought you had already left.”

Yusuf paused and stared at Nicolò, his dark eyes searching and inescapable, even in the gathering night. Nicolò had to look away, studying the side of the road as if an explanation might be written in the sand and stones.

“You thought _what_?” Yusuf asked, clearly confused.

 _I thought you had given up on me_ , Nicolò thought. But no, of course Yusuf would not simply sneak away from him like a coward. Yusuf was too noble and caring to do such a thing, and only Nicolò’s own foolishness and ignorance had made him believe otherwise. Face hot with shame, Nicolò shook his head. “No. I was mistaken. You were not there, and I… I misunderstood.”

Yusuf’s frown deepened. “If you do not wish to speak of it, I understand,” he said gently, as if Nicolò was a frightened animal who might startle and run away. “And if you wish to be rid of me, I... Well, I don’t _understand_ , but I will respect your choice.”

“Rid of you?” Nicolò repeated, suddenly feeling like they were having two different conversations. “I thought you wished to be rid of _me_.”

“What? Why would...” Yusuf narrowed his eyes in a way that Nicolò knew meant he was figuring something out. After a moment, he asked, “Did you read the letter?”

The embarrassed heat on Nicolò’s cheeks burned hotter. “No, I...”

“Why on earth not?”

“Because I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” Yusuf scoffed. “Can’t be still long enough t-”

“Can’t _read_.”

That brought Yusuf up short. He stared at Nicolò blankly, opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again. Nicolò turned his eyes back to the side of the road, waiting for Yusuf’s reaction.

Finally, Yusuf murmured a mild curse and said warmly, in the same voice he often used to wish Nicolò good morning, “I am a fool. Let us make camp, and we will talk.”

With a small fire lit, their sleeping blankets spread out within its soft glow, and the horse secured close by, Yusuf silently coaxed Nicolò into eating a small amount of food before the conversation could continue. When he was satisfied that Nicolò would not starve before his very eyes, he prompted quietly, “Please, Nico, tell me what happened.”

Ashamed, despite knowing that Yusuf would never mock or belittle him, Nicolò admitted, “When I returned to find you gone, I thought you had chosen your quiet life, and that you had written a letter to say goodbye. I thought you meant to...” _To spare me pain._ “...to spare us both an uncomfortable farewell.”

Yusuf barked out a laugh, loud and sharp in the still night. “That’s the most absurd thing I’ve ever heard.”

Nicolò bristled, but before he could say anything, Yusuf went on, “I went into the village to settle things and to wheedle the old man out of a decent horse. It took longer than I expected, but not so long as to make you think I had abandoned you.”

“Then why did you leave a letter?” Nicolò demanded. That Yusuf had gone into the village as usual would have been a logical assumption, but the presence of the letter, so dramatically out of place, had sent Nicclò’s mind down the path of doubt. If everything was as it had always been, why mark it with such an unexpected thing?

Yusuf’s smile flickered, but his tone was easy as he replied, “It was nothing. Some words of reassurance I thought you might need.”

Anyone else might not have known he was lying, but Nicolò did. He gave Yusuf a hard look.

Yusuf sighed. “Alright. If you must know, it was... Yesterday, you said that I could remain behind while you went off to war, as if it was nothing at all, as if it was a simple choice that I might make on a whim. I could not allow you to believe my loyalty was so fickle a thing that I would consent to being parted at the first disagreement.”

“Hardly the first,” Nicolò muttered.

Yusuf, graciously, ignored him. “I wanted to take care in choosing my words, else you might accuse me of hyperbole, so I committed to writing what I have already told you: That I will go where you go, that I will fight or walk or rest beside you in whatever land calls to you. I cannot guess what God intends for us, but I know in my deepest heart that we must face it together. Nothing less than death - true and final death - will unlink my destiny from yours, and even then I do not think you shall be rid of me.”

Nicolò blinked, overwhelmed.

He had grown accustomed to hearing Yusuf speak in this way, eloquent and fervent, about things of great importance: faith, art, politics, and anything else about which he carried deep feeling and opinion. Once, Yusuf had issued a poetic exclamation about the color of Nicolò’s eyes, leaving Nicolò feeling oddly flustered, but never had Nicolò or their strange immortal bond been the subject of such an impassioned declaration. That Yusuf would speak of him with such emotion was too much, nevermind the words themselves. He could think of nothing to say in reply, and so sat gaping dumbly at his companion.

Yusuf coughed, looking suddenly self-conscious. “I should have said so before, plainly, and not resorted to the drama of a written letter. I am sorry to have distressed you.”

Nicolò opened his mouth to protest that he had not been distressed, but he knew his thoughts were as transparent to Yusuf as Yusuf’s were to him and did not bother to lie.

“You are not to blame,” Nicolò said. “I let my fears get the better of me. I am sorry.”

Yusuf’s mouth twitched, as if he wished to comment on that, but he shook his head, smiling ruefully. “Let us agree that there is no blame and no harm done, yes? We are both fools who should not leap to conclusions.”

Nicolò smiled at him in return. “Agreed.”

Expression brighter, Yusuf gripped his arm in friendly acknowledgement, and Nicolò felt warmed. Yusuf had given him more friendly touches in their time together than Nicolò had received in his entire life, and each time he found it both unexpected and comforting.

“If you give me the letter, I can reuse the parchment,” Yusuf said, casual in a way that meant he was trying deliberately to sound casual.

Nicolò felt the flush return to his face and hoped that Yusuf could not see the sudden color in the firelight. Quietly, Nicolò asked, “May I keep it?”

Yusuf made a face that Nicolò couldn’t quite decipher. “Of course, but why?”

How to describe the feeling it gave him to see his name written in Yusuf’s graceful script? How to explain that this might be the only record in all the world that he had lived and that his life had mattered to someone?

“Sentimental reasons,” he said. 

Yusuf gave a vague smile that told Nicolò he understood the idea, if not the reason, and nodded. “As you wish, my brother.”

As they lay down to sleep that night, with the fire burning low and the stars bright overhead, Nicolò expected himself to be restless, replaying the day’s events in his mind. Instead, he found the sound of Yusuf breathing calmed him more than it ever had, and he fell asleep facing away from his companion, looking out into the deep night.


	3. Chapter 3

Yusuf cursed himself for a fool, using every possible insult in every language he knew. He did this in the silence of his own thoughts, but, everytime Nicolò looked at him, he was certain his beloved could hear the litany of his stupidity.

Letters were not taught among the Christians as they were among his own people. He knew this, and yet he sometimes seemed to forget that Nicolò, for all that he was different and for all the ways that he had changed, was still a Christian.

“I could teach you,” Yusuf offered, on the third day of their journey to meet the invaders. “Latin letters are simple enough, and you already know the sounds.”

Nicolò stared at him in silence for so long, Yusuf began to think he might have offended him, until Nicolò said cautiously, “I would not wish to trouble you. I have never had a talent for such things.”

Yusuf waved away the concern. “There is no need for talent, only a willingness to learn. If you have that, and still you learn nothing, it is the fault of your teacher.”

That earned him a small shimmer of a smile. “You are placing a great deal of faith in your ability to teach.”

“I taught the boy who worked for my father to do sums,” Yusuf assured him. “You are at least half as smart as he was.”

Nicolò laughed, a rare and lovely sound that filled Yusuf’s heart. More than anything on this earth, he thought, he loved to make Nicolò laugh. 

“You truly do not mind?” Nicolò asked.

“I would be delighted,” Yusuf said honestly. “It may not come easily, but your Arabic is getting better by the day. You do not give yourself enough credit.”

Nicolò ducked his head and looked off to the side, as he often did when Yusuf paid him a compliment. This, of course, made Yusuf want to pay him a thousand compliments every day, but he restrained himself, as he suspected that effusive praise genuinely made Nicolò uncomfortable.

From then, they spent their evenings sitting shoulder to shoulder beside the fire, inscribing symbols in the dust. Despite his hesitation, Nicolò was a quick study, though he had a tendency to write certain letters backward and to confuse the ones that were too similar to each other. Words proved easier, as Nicolò could remember what sequence corresponded to which meaning more readily than he could connect the letters to sounds.

When they joined the battle at Gangra, there was less time for reading, but Yusuf often saw Nicolò scratching at the ground during idle moments. Yusuf, for his part, preferred to sleep during such moments, secure in the knowledge that Nicolò was watching over him.

He had yet to speak his deeper feelings to Nicolò, but he thought the moment to do so had passed. When the fighting had ended, and they could again have time alone, he would revisit the matter. In the meantime, they made some friends among their fellow warriors, who remarked that they seemed as inseparable in battle as they were in life, two faces of a single being. This notion pleased Yusuf greatly, and he believed it pleased Nicolò, too.

“Where in the Prophet’s name did you find such a creature?” one of the others, a man called Farhan, asked Yusuf during supper one evening.

“At the mouth of Heaven itself,” Yusuf replied, and Farhan laughed.

“Of course. I should have known. Where else would one find a virtuous demon?”

Behind Yusuf, Nicolò’s voice spoke suddenly, “I hear _demon_ , so you must be talking about me.”

He joined the conversation in heavily-accented, though much improved, Arabic, and Farhan beamed at him as he sat on the ground beside Yusuf. Farhan assured him brightly, “The finest demon ever to escape from hell. Had I unmarried daughters, I would consider allowing you near them.”

Nicolò snorted in amusement, and Yusuf’s heart fluttered happily in his chest. “A great honor for a filthy infidel, like myself,” Nicolò agreed with a wry smile at Yusuf.

Farhan barked out another laugh and offered Nicolò a piece of bread from his plate, which Nicolò accepted with a gracious nod of thanks, then promptly tore in two to share with Yusuf.

“Not so filthy, anymore,” Yusuf teased, tugging lightly on a lock of Nicolò’s long, straight hair. “Still an infidel, though.”

“Truly, you flatter me. I am unworthy to be in your presence.” Nicolò rolled his eyes and likewise pulled on one of Yusuf’s curls.

The sudden desire to kiss him was so overwhelming, Yusuf leaned in slightly before he caught himself. He would have to address this matter soon, or else get better control of his impulses.

In battle, they often stayed near the edges of the field where they were less likely to be seen, should any serious injuries occur. Nicolò protested that there was no reason to hide their gift, that they should be at the front of the charge, protecting those who were not immune to death.

“And what explanation will you give to those who witness it?” Yusuf had asked him quietly. “That we really are virtuous demons? Or practitioners of magic?”

“The truth,” Nicolò had replied. “That we have been blessed by God.”

“So we are holy men, you will say? Or perhaps angels?” Yusuf understood Nicolò’s need for honesty and to do the most that they could, but the risk was too great. “Whatever good might come of it, eventually word would come to those who wish us harm, and we would be imprisoned as heretics.”

 _At best_ , Yusuf thought. He had seen the cruelty the invaders inflicted on their enemies, and his stomach turned to think what they might do to an undying Christian who had betrayed his own people. Though he was not proud of it, Yusuf was willing to let innocents perish in order to keep Nicolò from harm.

Nicolò accepted his reasoning, though not without some tension, and Yusuf often felt as if his role in the fighting - indeed, sometimes, in life - was simply to keep Nicolò from rushing headlong into the swords of his enemies. He would have called it reckless, had he not known that Nicolò had fought in the exact same manner before learning of his immortality. It was Nicolò’s nature to be a shield, just as it was Yusuf’s nature to be, as his mother once put it, a melodramatic old woman.

The invaders were attempting to lay siege to the city, but their efforts were proceeding poorly. Yusuf and Nicolò had joined a small force intent on disrupting those efforts further, doing everything in their power to sow chaos among the Christians. They were nearly through routing a small band of soldiers away from the city wall when the day took a terrible turn.

Yusuf’s only warning was the sound of Nicolò frantically shouting his name as he turned to see the base of a burning siege tower crumbling toward him. He stumbled as he tried to run. Too slow. A weight crashed into him and forced him to the ground. He braced for the crunch of bone, the searing heat of flames, the featureless black of death.

Nothing.

There was crushing weight, but no sharp impact. Heat, but no burning. His body was battered, but not damaged. 

He was wrapped in rough cloth, he realized, its texture warm and familiar.

 _Nicolò_.

Yusuf scrambled to free himself from the protective hold of Nicolò’s cloak. He could smell flesh burning, could hear grunts of pain. He crawled forward until he felt cooler air and pulled the cloak off of his head. Immediately, he could clearly see what had happened.

Ever quick to action, Nicolò had thrown his cloak and his body on top of Yusuf to shield him from the falling structure. Yusuf was unharmed, but...

As gently as he could, Yusuf pulled himself out from under Nicolò and quickly hauled his companion away from the burning wreckage. He tore the charred clothes away from Nicolò’s body, and tried not to look at the welts and blisters where fire had consumed the skin or at the bruised and distended flesh where bones had been bashed out of place. Instead, he focused all his attention on Nicolò’s face, lying beside him on the ground, both on their stomachs and as close together as Yusuf could get.

Nicolò’s eyes were tightly closed, not in death but in pain, his jaw clenched, breathing hard through his nose.

“Nico,” Yusuf pleaded softly, placing a hand on Nicolò’s bloodied cheek. “My heart, please, speak to me.”

Nicolò groaned. A scrape on his temple was already healing, but the carnage on his back was taking much too long. Through gritted teeth, he managed to whine, “Hurts.”

Yusuf’s chest ached. He shuffled closer against Nicolò’s trembling body, praying that God would let him take this pain, cursing the divine hand that would allow this radiant soul to suffer. “I know, my love, I know,” he soothed. “It will be alright. You will be alright. I am here.”

With tremendous effort, Nicolò moved his hand to grip Yusuf’s wrist. Yusuf could see the skin of his arm knitting slowly back together over bone and muscle. Tears gathered in Nicolò’s thick lashes, joining the sweat and blood in leaving dirty streaks around the angles of his beautiful face. Yusuf felt tears forming in his own eyes, his throat tight and sore.

“I am here,” he said again, stroking his thumb over the soft skin under Nicolò’s eye. “This will pass, my heart. My valiant, fearless Nico. My holy shield. You will be alright.”

Nicolò gave a sharp gasp of agony and turned his face further into the dirt, baring his teeth as he ground them together. Yusuf could hear the cries he was not making, the wrenching screams held captive in his mouth.

Yusuf ran gentle fingers around the shell of Nicolò’s ear, through the matted strands of his hair, along the rough edge of his jaw, anywhere that he could offer a grounding touch. There was still a battle happening around them, but he did not care; the only thing that mattered in all of creation was Nicolò.

Whether it was moments or hours that Nicolò lay sobbing against the ground, Yusuf could not have said, but even a single heartbeat would have been too long. He touched and soothed and babbled sweet comforts in every language he knew until Nicolò’s sea-glass eyes were open and clear, and they were both able to rise, knees shaking with effort and exhaustion.

Wounds healed and death was impermanent, but everything took its toll. Nicolò had already fought fiercely that day, and this drained the last of his strength. Yusuf drew Nicolò’s cloak around both their shoulders and led his beloved back to camp for rest.

Nicolò needed to sleep, should have slept soundly as soon as he fell upon his bedroll, but he remained restless. Anxious, Yusuf kept watch over him into the night and saw him lie on his back and grow still many times, only to roll to his side - as was his habit - and become agitated again. Finally, as the night deepened, Yusuf moved to sit beside Nicolò, laying a hand on the back of his shoulder.

“What do you need, my brother?” Yusuf asked quietly in Ligurian.

For several seconds, Nicolò did not answer, his bright eyes staring off away from Yusuf. Then, in a low voice, he admitted, “My skin feels as though it is still burning. I know it isn’t, but...” He sighed and closed his eyes. “I will be alright. It is just a feeling.”

“A feeling that is troubling you,” Yusuf observed. It was because of him that Nicolò had suffered so terribly because of him that Nicolò now could not rest. “Does it help to have something at your back?”

“Yes. I don’t know why, but...”

Before he could finish speaking, Yusuf had laid down behind him, chest pressed firmly against his back. “Is this better?”

Nicolò tensed in Yusuf’s arms, hardly breathing, then he let out a long sigh and relaxed, melting into the position as though Yusuf were a soft bed. “Yes. That is... better. Thank you.”

Yusuf had imagined holding Nicolò many times, had dreamed of it and longed for it, and somehow the reality was sweeter than any fantasy. Immediately, he felt more at peace, and his eyelids grew heavy in anticipation of sleep.

Just as Yusuf was approaching the borderlands of consciousness, Nicolò asked suddenly, “Is this comfortable for you?”

“Very,” Yusuf replied sleepily. “Perfect.”

A moment of silence, then, “Only there is no sense in both of us being kept awake, if y-”

“Nico, beloved, song of my heart,” Yusuf cut him off. “Be still. Go to sleep.”

“Alright.” Nicolò nestled into the curve of Yusuf’s body. “Goodnight, Yusuf.”

Yusuf yawned against the back of his neck, already drifting toward sleep. “Goodnight, my love.”

***

Nicolò woke in the early morning, thin sunlight settling over the quiet camp like a veil. Though some weariness lingered from the day before, he felt rested and alive. Yusuf, meanwhile, was dead to the world, still wrapped tightly around Nicolò like he was protecting something precious. His warm arms and even breathing could easily have lured Nicolò back to sleep, but something pulled at the edges of Nicolò’s mind, a memory that would not be left alone.

Yusuf had said many things while Nicolò was healing, soft bits of nonsense meant to comfort when there was no other comfort to give. It meant nothing, and yet certain words hung in his head like lingering music, a distant tune he was certain he had heard before.

 _Amore mio_. My love. A term of endearment so simple, Yusuf may not know he had said it, likely did not mean to say it at all. He had addressed Nicolò in many ways, some with affection and some not, but never in this way. No one had ever addressed Nicolò in this way.

Yet the shape of the words hovered in his thoughts as clearly as if they were written in the air before him. 

Slowly, careful not to disturb his companion, Nicolò rose from the nest of blankets. His cloak was wrapped around his bare shoulders, smelling strongly of smoke and blood, both it and his body in dire need of washing. He swayed on his feet as he stood, head aching for need of food and water, but there would be time for that later.

His pack was piled neatly with their other belongings, near where the horse was tethered. _Turtle_ , Yusuf had called it, insisting the name was chosen by the previous owner. Nicolò could not help but shake his head in fond exasperation as the beast nosed at his shoulder, looking for a treat.

Nicolò shuffled through his pack until he found the rolled-up piece of parchment with his name written on the edge. 

In quiet moments, he had taken the letter out to look at it, to examine the words and try to absorb some of the meaning that Yusuf had so carefully inscribed into them. The letters had become familiar, and the words themselves grew clearer every time he saw them. 

There, right at the start. _Nicolò, amore mio._

Now that he knew what to look for, it was everywhere. _Amore mio. Amato mio. Ti amo. Amo il tuo cuore._ A dozen times throughout the page. Many of the words were still foreign to his eyes, but he suddenly could see the letter for what it truly was.

“Nico?”

He looked up to find Yusuf blinking at him with half-open eyes, soft black curls flattened on one side of his head and a red mark on his face from where it had been pressed against the blanket. Warmth welled up in Nicolò’s heart at the sight of him, this extraordinary man who could sleep through armageddon itself, who had given his heart so gently that Nicolò had not even noticed.

Yusuf sat up with a groan, rubbing at his eyes. It took him a moment to notice the letter in Nicolò’s hand, but once he did, he frowned. Before he could speak, Nicolò held the parchment out to him and said softly in Arabic, “Tell me what it says.”

“I told you w-”

“Yusuf.” Nicolò looked him in the eye. “Please.”

For a moment, Yusuf stared back at him, looking lost and helpless as if Nicolò was asking him to perform some impossible feat. Finally, he breathed deeply and took the letter delicately from Nicolò’s hand.

“It says that I will go where you go,” Yusuf began, in Ligurian, “and that, wherever we go and whatever happens, I will love you.”

Nicolò had known, and still the simple statement of it caught him like a hook in his heart.

Whatever Yusuf saw in Nicolò’s face seemed to give him greater courage, and he went on, dark eyes shining, “It says that I love you as the night sky loves the stars. I love you as the riverbed loves the rain. I love you as the field loves the flowers.”

Yusuf reached out, as if to take Nicolò’s hand, then suddenly stopped. As he was drawing back, Nicolò reached out instead and entwined their fingers together. The astonished wonder on Yusuf’s face glowed as brightly as the rising sun.

“It says I offer all and ask for nothing,” Yusuf continued, hardly more than a whisper. “It says you need not answer and that nothing need change. I am honored and blessed to be as I am: your beloved brother and treasured companion. I am content to be only that for all eternity.”

Enraptured by Yusuf’s gentle voice and expressive eyes, it did not occur to Nicolò, for a moment, that this was the conclusion of the letter. Abruptly, he realized that Yusuf expected some sort of reply, even if that reply was to act as if nothing had happened. Of course, as soon as Nicolò decided that he must speak, all reasonable responses went out of his head, and he could think of absolutely nothing coherent to say.

After a few desperate seconds, which Nicolò was sure tested the limits of Yusuf’s patience, the words that came tumbling out of Nicolò’s mouth were, “I hated my brothers. That is, I did not hate them. I loved them, for they were my brothers, and God bids us love those who are unkind to us, but I did not...” He shook his head, sighing at his own awkwardness, and tried again. “I prefer solitude. The company of others is... exhausting, even those I admire. I do not speak well, even in my own language. I would rather be in a pitched battle than a polite conversation.”

He looked at Yusuf, who was now regarding him with a slightly puzzled smile, and hoped that his eyes would speak where his words failed.

“You do not exhaust me,” he said, immediately knowing it was not right. He was starting to feel dizzy. “That is, you… I…” 

Yusuf placed his hand over the joined knot of their fingers. “You don’t have to say anything.”

“No, I want to,” Nicolò insisted. “I want you to know h-”

“ _Amore mio_ ,” Yusuf stopped him gently. “Breathe.”

Nicolò took a deep breath, suddenly feeling like he had been drowning and Yusuf’s voice was his salvation. He breathed out slowly, and Yusuf smiled at him with such warmth and adoration that his frantically spinning thoughts began to steady.

“Now tell me plainly,” Yusuf said. “Do you love me?”

No longer able to trust his tongue, Nicolò nodded.

Drawing in a steadying breath of his own, Yusuf asked, “As I love you?”

Nicolò nodded again. Even if he wanted to speak, there was now a hard knot in his throat that would allow no sound to pass.

Yusuf uttered a quiet sob of joy and raised Nicolò’s hand to his lips, pressing firm, dry kisses to Nicolò’s fingers, to his palm and his wrist, to the soft skin of his forearm. Nicolò had never been touched with such tenderness, and he shivered with a kind of pleasure that was entirely new.

“That is all I need,” Yusuf told him, his voice thick and impossibly soft. “No speeches, no poetry, only you and your perfect heart.”

Nicolò swallowed and forced himself to answer, “It is yours. I am yours.”

Slowly, cautiously, Yusuf began to lean forward, his fervent gaze drifting to Nicolò’s mouth. Immediately, Nicolò understood what he meant to do and closed the distance between them.

Yusuf’s kiss was like no other. He was fierce and hungry, as if only the only satisfaction he could have in the world was for Nicolò to kiss him in return, which Nicolò did gladly.

Around them, the camp was stirring awake, but it did not matter. In the land beyond, there were battles yet to fight, but they did not care. There were questions yet unanswered, but they would face those together. For now, there was only peace.

**Author's Note:**

> First fic in a new fandom! Thanks to lafseanchai for the beta and encouragement!


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